


Quarter after one

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Season/Series 04, Self-Doubt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, the Holmes parents are bad parents and nothing will convince otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 10:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13809405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: There are people who are better off alone.Whether or not Mycroft Holmes is one of them remains to be seen.





	Quarter after one

**Author's Note:**

> So… this. This was a draft on my google docs for a while, so it was just a bunch of somewhat unconnected scenes. With a little work, I thought they worked well enough, although it’s not really my usual style, so I’m a little worried about it :P  
> That damn scene at the near end of TFP with the Holmes parents (you probably know which one) will haunt me to the end of my days. Nothing will ever convince me again the Holmes parents were good parents, but I didn’t want to dwell overly much on that in here… although I suppose I did anyway :P I’ve never done a character study before and while I’m not 100% sure I’d call this one, I think it’s close enough. Warnings for some mentions about unhealthy coping mechanisms.  
> The title comes from the song “need you now”. I… there’s something about that particular lyric that strikes me as terribly sad and well… I ran away with that idea ;)  
> And, before we continue, a special thanks to the lovely egmon73 for her comments and encouragement!  
> Enjoy!

Just another hour.

Perhaps one more for good measure.

Just ten more minutes.

Another ten and then he’ll definitely stop.

Another ten couldn’t possibly hurt.

Perhaps…

In the end, his legs take the decision away from him, finally giving up due exhaustion. He manages to stop the treadmill before collapsing, but it’s a very near thing. He rubs his forehead absentmindedly, a slight lump there a reminder of how just a couple of days ago he wasn’t that quick and ended up hitting his head in the fall.

He sits on the treadmill for a few minutes, catching his breath and gathering enough strength to pull himself up. The grandfather clock on the far side of the room says it’s a quarter past one: a little early for him to go to bed just yet but he very much doubts his body is in any mood to cooperate and so attempting to work will bring nothing but frustration.

He tests his legs, clinging to the treadmill handles with all his might. His knees buckle once more and he sighs, frustrated, sitting down once more, this time bringing his bottle of water with him, although he has an awkward hold on it and so a little spills all over the carpet.

He observes the water puddle with disinterest, wondering if he can convince his brain of the need to clean it up and so force his body to work for a little longer. He knows that if he does manage, he’ll end up cleaning the whole room and once he’s started, maybe he can persuade himself of going through the whole house. If he’s very lucky, such thing would take the rest of the night, sparing him of having to go to bed at all.

Of course if he does that, he’ll be crabby tomorrow morning and he’ll probably take out his frustration on his subordinates, earning himself a pointed look from his assistant which will lead to her scheduling yet another appointment with a new therapist, this one with yet more diplomas than all the previous ones put together.

Mycroft would much rather avoid that.

He’s not the type of man who’s comfortable being vulnerable, particularly not with perfect strangers. He’d much rather deal with things on his own terms, in his own time or, if he can get his way, avoid dealing with them full stop, but he realizes sometimes that’s just not viable.

This seems to be one of those cases, but he’s still hopeful. If he continues ignoring his emotional turmoil, maybe it’ll finally fade away.

Doubtful, but worth a try.

He tests his legs once more and this time he manages to stand still. He nods approvingly to himself and decides that the cleaning of the carpet can wait till tomorrow. He does need to sleep, even if he dreads the thoughts that will chase him once he’s abed, staring at the ceiling and with nothing to distract him.

It’s not this bad everyday, not by far; if that was the case he has no doubt he’d have already driven himself mad. But today was a bad day and then of course Mummy, with her perfect timing, had called and asked for him to schedule yet another visit to Sherrinford, so they all can visit Eurus.

What he’d give to be able to skip those visits. He suspects Sherlock actually enjoys them, god knows why and it seems to be helping him and Eurus _heal_ in some manner, not to mention they make their parents feel much less guilty about _everything_ but for him…

Well. It’s not quite that simple.

He doesn’t bother to undress, although his clothes are utterly disgusting, drenched with sweat. He’s probably going to regret it in the morning, when he’ll feel even more disgusted with himself than usual, but right now he can’t bear the thought of moving, not when sleep seems so easily within reach, no tossing and turning needed even if he knows he’ll end up having nightmares.

Tired as he is, he fails to notice his phone on his nightstand, flashing with the notification of a new message.

Which is probably for the best.

* * *

 

The drive back home is blessedly quiet.

Sherlock fell asleep at some point between their parents home and London, after spending most of the trip texting Dr. Watson with increasing frequency. The small relaxed smile on his brother’s face let him know it was nothing worrisome and so Mycroft hadn’t asked. He knew it was unlikely he’d get an answer in any case, so better to let the matter rest.

He takes a deep breath, unwilling to let his emotions get the best of him at the sight of his brother so evidently happy and relaxed. Sherlock has been through hell and back and Mycroft isn’t proud to say he might have contributed to it somehow, so he can’t help the way his heart swells with happiness at the prospect of those dark days being definitely behind them.

It’s certainly one less thing to worry about.

He hums contently to himself, wondering if he should drop Sherlock at Baker Street or take him to his own home. His brother won’t appreciate that, of course, but it’d prolong his sleep for a little longer and he knows he needs it: Sherlock has never cared much about his _transport_ and he tends to overuse it. Mycroft’s own loneliness might play a role too, but that’s certainly not the main reason behind his idea.

But then Sherlock’s phone rings with a new incoming message and Mycroft sighs, forcing his eyes to stay on the road. His brother is, no doubt, very much missed at his own home by his _real_ family. It’d be horribly selfish of him to keep him away from John and Rosie only because he isn’t feeling at his best.

He’ll be fine, in any case. He’s used to be on his own and he knows by now that that’s never going to change, so there’s no use on wishing for things to be different.

With that thought in mind he continues driving towards his brother’s home, carefully keeping his mind blank.

There’s no use on thinking of the things one can’t have.

* * *

 

The fridge is empty once more.

He really should do some shopping at some point, but he keeps forgetting. He has a complicated relationship with food in any case and so at some point not buying any became sort of an habit. If there’s no food he can not possibly eat to ease the feeling of emptiness inside, never mind he does occasionally get hungry and how bad that probably is for his health in general.

His eyes slide towards his phone, abandoned on top of the table, the unanswered text haunting him even though it’s been a week and so the sender is probably not expecting an answer anymore, if he ever did.

He does know how Mycroft is, after all. He probably knows better than to hope for him to react favorably to friendly overtures, particularly given the circumstances in which they parted the last time they saw each other.

He closes his eyes, forcing himself not to think about the matter anymore. He picks up a water bottle and heads towards the treadmill, telling himself he’s just going to run for a little while, just to clear his head and forget how hungry he is. Then he’ll see to that text, this time for real, because it’s evident he’s not going to stop thinking about it, no matter how long he keeps on ignoring it.

* * *

 

The text goes predictably unanswered.

And life goes on.

* * *

 

The jostling of the bed is what wakes him up, but the sound of the thunder outside followed by a terrified whimper makes him forget all about going back to sleep. With a weary sigh he sits up, lifting the duvet, searching for the terrified toddler that is now crying in earnest while she holds her stuffed bee to her chest.

Mycroft sighs, pulling the girl into an awkward hug. Rosie clings to him as if life depended on it and he spares a quick second to curse his brother’s questionable _parenting_ decisions. Who ever told him letting a 4 year old watch horror movies was a good idea?

“Bad dream?” he asks, picking her up and rocking her. Rosie whimpers, her arm around his neck tightening and he takes a deep breath, resigning himself to another sleepless night. Not an entirely uncommon occurrence, to be honest, but he had thought those sleepless nights due to frightened children were well behind him.

But then he could have never predicted his brother would end up with an adopted daughter and therefore he’d end up as an honorary uncle.

He makes his way to the kitchen, his mind going through the list of easy remedies he used to implement when Sherlock was a toddler himself and afraid of the dark. A glass of warm milk sounds like just the thing.

The fridge is, predictably, empty.

“It seems we’re all out of milk, Ms. Watson,” he says, although he’s mostly talking to himself. Another thunder and Rosie whimpers once more, hugging her toy close. “Hush now. It’s just the rain, nothing’s wrong.” He kisses the top of her head on instinct, holding her protectively. “I’m here, nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

The words fall easily from his lips, without him really registering them, but when he does he scowls darkly at nothing in particular. They’re familiar words, familiar _lies._ Lies he told Sherlock endless times when he was just a boy and much later, when he was a troubled teen and a young addict.

His presence was of little use to his baby brother and he doubts it’ll be of any use to young Ms. Watson.

He sighs, going through his cupboards in search of something edible. Chocolates or cookies would probably do, but unfortunately he’s going through another of his low phases, when he convinces himself that eating as little as possible and losing as much weight as possible will somehow make his life more bearable. He knows it’s a lie, but he can’t help himself and now-

The only cabinet with something in it is his liquor cabinet and he somehow doubts Dr. Watson would approve of him feeding his daughter any alcohol. Neither would Sherlock, for that matter, never mind his own questionable methods to put the girl to sleep.

He sighs as he walks around the living room, sparing a quick glance at the grandfather clock that informs him is just a quarter after one and holding back a sigh at the thought of forgoing sleep once again, all the while attempting to rock Rosie back to sleep. Her eyelids drop on their own accord, but every new thunder makes her jump and whimper anew, so unless the rain stops, he very much doubts she’ll manage to fall asleep once more.

If Rosie is staying for a while, he’s going to need to go the shops tomorrow. Considering his brother’s new case seemed quite problematic, it’s very likely he and Dr. Watson will be gone for a week at least, so…

He starts making a mental note of what he’s going to need to buy and wonders once more why he agreeded to babysit. Mrs. Hudson is apparently visiting her sister and Ms. Hooper is in a seminar on forensics somewhere aboard, so both were out of the question. Dr. Watson would rather not have his sister involved in his daughter’s life at all and of course Inspector Lestrade was the one that got them involved in the case to begin with, so while Sherlock and Mycroft’s relationship isn’t ideal, he was the only option left.

It’s not so bad, or at least he doesn’t think so. He likes children, although he’d never admit it aloud. While he could have never had any children of his own (his sexual preferences and his lifestyle made it impossible, really), he must admit he often fantasizes of a family of his own.

A real family. What a fanciful thought.

He’s not made for that, of course. He’s meant to be alone and that’s fine by him; he’s infinitely thankful his brother and his partner are willing enough to let him be involved in their lives and therefore in the life of his niece. It’s much more than he ever thought he’d have and so of course he’s happy to babysit; _delighted_ even but-

A little warning would have been nice.

He realizes he has started humming softly at some point and that seems to have calmed Rosie enough, because she’s now snoring against his chest. He sits down on the rocking chair in the living room, a sentimental memento he brought from his parents’ home. Mummy had wanted to throw it away and Mycroft, in a fit of sentimentality, had asked for it.

As he rocks himself and his niece, he’s rather thankful he did. The rocking motion is relaxing and soon enough he finds his own eyelids drooping. He carefully rearranges Rosie so she won’t fall and soon enough he has drifted to sleep, the only sound in the entirely too big house their combined breathing.

* * *

 

The fridge is still empty the next morning.

There’s of course no logical reason why that would have changed overnight; it’s not like Mycroft had asked anyone to do the shopping for him, but-

There was a time, not so long ago, when both the cupboards and the fridge had been filled with food. There was a time, not so long ago, when he’d come back home from a long day at work and he’d found not only food in the fridge and the cupboards, but a warm dinner served at the table and a man waiting for him to share said meal.

It wasn’t so long ago and yet it was a lifetime ago.

He’s better off alone, of course. He knows this, has always known this and yet, for a while, he indulged himself in the illusion of the contrary. For a few months (the happiest months of his life) he had indulged himself in the illusion of loving and being loved back.

He had been so happy.

He should have known it couldn’t possibly last.

“I think we’re going out for breakfast, Ms. Watson,” he informs Rosie very seriously, getting nothing but a yawn for his troubles. He smiles, leaning down to press a quick kiss against the top her head, running his fingers through her messy curls and remembering another curly head he used to kiss; Sherlock’s delight at the simple gesture when he was Rosie’s age and his rolled eyes once he become “too old” for such displays.

He picks the sleepy girl up and heads for the door, grabbing the car keys on his way out. Sherlock forgot to bring the car seat along, so he’ll have to-

“Oh. You’re back already,” he says as he runs into his brother on his way out. Sherlock is scowling darkly at nothing in particular, but his expression clears up immediately when Rosie lets out a delighted squeal after spotting him. Sherlock smiles brightly, picking up his daughter and kissing her forehead affectionately.

“The case was barely a 4,” his brother says, his whole focus on Rosie. “I told Lestrade he could handle it on his own.”

Mycroft nods, awkwardly shifting his weight from one feet to the other. “And Dr. Watson?”

Sherlock huffs annoyedly and Mycroft holds back a sigh. So that’s the real reason why Sherlock came back earlier. “Did you get into an argument?” his brother just huffs once more and Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. “Brother, running away from your problems-”

“Oh, as if you had a leg to stand on,” Sherlock says, tone light, busy as he is playing with Rosie. “You _chased_ your problem away.”

That’s… true enough, he supposes. Still- “You and Dr. Watson have known each other for a long while. Now that you’ve finally… now that things are _different_ , surely you don’t want them to go back to what they were.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, still staring at Rosie instead of at his brother. “Thanks for looking after Rosie,” he says, turning away swiftly and Mycroft considers the merits of going after him.

In the end, he decides it’s probably wiser to let his brother and his partner handle their issues as they best see fit.

It’s not like Mycroft is an expert in relationships.

Better to leave them on their own.

* * *

 

_“I don’t need your pity.”_

_“It’s not pity,” the Inspector protests, expression strained, looking like someone who knows he has already lost and yet unwilling to completely give up._

_“Then what is it?” Mycroft demands, crossing his arms in front of his chest, glaring at nothing in particular, refusing to acknowledge the little hope being born inside his chest. He knows it’s not_ that, _no matter what he’d prefer to believe._

_“I…” Lestrade begins, licking his lips nervously. “I just… we’re friends, are we not? I’m just trying to help.”_

_In lieu of a response, Mycroft closes the door on his face._

 

* * *

 

The dream/memory rarely varies from what actually happened, except for the ending. Sometimes he closes the door, just as he did in real life, but the Inspector pushes it open once again by seemingly sheer will. Sometimes they continue arguing, the words turning more bitter and cruel until the good Inspector storms away, after Mycroft has thrown a particular nasty jab. Sometimes the argument turns physical and there’s something to be said about Mycroft’s tendency to find such turnabout terribly erotic, even more so that those times when the argument turns into a heavy make out session against his front door that would have his neighbors calling the cops for gross indecency.

It doesn’t matter, because there’s just one true ending and he thinks it might be the least satisfying one.

Isn’t that the story of his life?

* * *

 

**_Why is that everytime your brother does something, I’m called in to clean his mess?_ **

A very easy, straightforward text that makes no reference whatsoever to their last encounter, unlike the previous one. Because of that, Mycroft figures he ought to answer.

_I’m afraid I’m rather caught up with another issue right now, but I’ll see to it as soon as I can._

He is indeed quite busy, which is why is not a surprise at all that he loses notion of the time and completely forgets all about the text, at least until another one comes in, startling him out of his thoughts.

**_Crisis averted but now I’m starving. Dinner/breakfast?_ **

A quick glance to his watch informs him it’s close to midnight; too late for dinner and way too early for breakfast. And yet-

Mycroft bites his lip, reminding himself why this is a bad idea. He should have cut the Inspector’s friendly overtures right after Sherrinford but he had indulged in his company and then…

Well. There’s no need to go through that again, is there?

So he puts his phone away and goes back to his work, refusing to dwell on the memories of his short… _whatever_ with Inspector Lestrade. It had been so nice to have someone to share an evening with, even if it was in the most chaste way possible and it had nearly killed him having to push the man away once, he’s not quite sure he can do it a second time and so…

Better not to risk it.

* * *

 

Gregory Lestrade has been a constant in both his brother’s and his life for the last decade or so, so it really shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that the man has learned a trick or two about how to deal with either Holmes. And yet he’s completely baffled when the door to his private office opens and the man steps in, bearing take away containers.

Mycroft scowls, but his stomach, that horrible traitor, chooses that exact moment to growl rather loudly, prompting a soft laugh from the Inspector and rendering all his protests utterly useless.

“You’re not supposed to be allowed here,” he murmurs sourly between bites and the other man grins rakishly, causing Mycroft’s stomach to flip funnily. “I’ll be having words with security.”

“Don’t be so harsh on the poor lads,” Lestrade says good naturedly, still smiling. “It’s not really their fault; I’ve got my methods.” He winks and if Mycroft’s stomach insists on performing these acrobatics, he’s not sure he should continue eating.

They carry on eating in silence, both seemingly loss in contemplation. “Thank you for the dinner,” Mycroft says, once he’s done, carefully putting his empty containers away.

“Mycroft, I-”

“You can show yourself out,” he interrupts sharply, turning his chair around so he’s no longer facing the other man. A tense silence follows and he closes his eyes, forcing himself not to apologize. The Inspector needs to understand that, even if he’s desperately lonely, there are much better companions than The Iceman.

The door closes softly after Lestrade and Mycroft continues staring at the wall, his skin itching unpleasantly and so he starts scratching his arm relentlessly until he draws blood, soiling his perfectly crisp white shirt.

Damn it all.

What the hell is he doing?

* * *

 

A little after one, Mycroft figures it’s time to call it a night and so he puts away his work for the night and heads for the door, lost in his thoughts, having already pushed his “dinner” with the Inspector and all the feelings it raised to the back of his mind.

It shouldn’t be a surprise and yet it is.

He knows about the Inspector’s stubborn strike and to be fair, he wouldn’t be able to deal with Sherlock as often as he does if he didn’t have it. Mycroft hesitates at his office entrance, unsure whether or not to run back in and lock himself in, waiting for Lestrade to finally take a damn hint and leave.

But that, he supposes, would be childish and definitely beneath himself, so he simply straightens his back and walks towards the other man, who’s sitting at Anthea’s desk, empty now for the night.

“You’re entirely too persistent for your own good,” he points out, aiming to sound annoyed and missing the mark entirely.

Lestrade shrugs casually, leaning back on his seat. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he accuses simply. “You haven’t even contacted me for Sherlock-related issues.”

“There hasn’t been anything noteworthy,” Mycroft argues calmly and the other man scoffs.

“Is that so?” he asks ironically but something about Mycroft’s expression seems to give him pause. “I just wanted to talk. And afterwards, if you want me to leave...”

Mycroft bites his lip nervously, hard enough to draw blood. He doesn’t want to talk, he really doesn’t, but then he remembers his own advice to his brother. Running from one’s problems rarely works out and he’s so tired of running anyway.

And yet, fear has a tight grip on him. These last few weeks have been hellish, if there’s something he knows for certain is that having a taste of the life he could have if only he was brave enough to go after it, only to lose it afterwards, is a recipe for madness but then, wasn’t it his own fear what made him lose the best thing that had ever happened to him?

_Yes,_ he thinks. If he allows his fear to continue controlling him, he’ll never know for sure whether or not things could actually work out. And maybe he doesn’t believe he can really have those things he desperately longs for, but maybe… maybe…

He looks at the Inspector, who is still patiently waiting for a reply and he makes a decision. The man has been brave enough to take as many steps as possible to make Mycroft realize he does want this, whatever _this_ might be and it’s high time for Mycroft to meet him halfway.

“Alright,” he agrees.

His companion smiles, bright as the sun despite the tired lines around his eyes and mouth and Mycroft knows he has made the right decision.

And no matter what might be waiting for them in the future, he knows he’s not going to regret it.

**Author's Note:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> Open endings are not my forte, mostly because they leave me itching for more. There might be more, eventually, but maybe not because this particular story does feel finished, even if missing a happily ever after ;)  
> If you feel like there’s some tags missing, please let me know!  
> Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!


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